


Yearly

by breadcat



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-09
Updated: 2017-03-09
Packaged: 2018-10-01 11:52:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10189319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/breadcat/pseuds/breadcat
Summary: Every year he grieves.And every year, you let him.





	

Every year it's the same.

Every year he grieves.

And every year, you let him.

Even after it seems like his brother was 'back from the dead', even after Overwatch had new fire and life breathed in to it, he grieved.

The same day every year. He comes back late, haggard and worse for wear and showing every inch of his travels over the last week. At first this had worried you, made you sit at your window watching and scarcely wanting to breathe in fear that it would shatter the world and take him from your fingers. But after a few years, you still worry, only now you know he will come back. He comes back to the watch point, silent as death itself. Always, always it's your habsuite he comes to. Makes himself right at home on the modest couch you brought here yourself. It's the very same one where you sat and held him, streaked in blood and wild eyed that night.

You never asked. But then again you really didn't have to.

He's heavy on the fabric, fingers wearing into the already faded and thread bare arm rests. It was your first piece of furniture you ever bought. And now it sat heavy and old and weighed down with memories, good and bad.

He never cried. But you held him all the same. Every time.

Sometimes, back when you were still in your apartment in Japan, before he asked you to come to the watch point so be knew you were safe. So the others could help him protect you. The night he asked, you had seen the rawness in his eyes, his heart bleeding. He wanted to keep you safe, from his enemies but also himself.

You had agreed. Being welcomed into the fray despite the fact that the only conceivable skill you possessed was keeping everyone on a schedule and cooking that was more edible than military rations.

You helped where you could even if it was just filing some reports for Winston or helping Dr Ziegler when she just needed a spare hand that required no medical training. But you were learning. Slowly. She taught you small things. Those things coming in handy when your lover of the last handful hectic up and down years of your life managed to sneak under the kind doctor's radar.

Scrapes and scratches you could fix. The one time he snuck back in with a gash in his side he even had the audacity to claim he didn't feel... that one you could not fix.

The habsuite is dark, the only viable light was from the always lit emergency box near the ceiling above the door. It cast an eerie red tint across the small apartment like room. In so many ways similar to the space in Japan you had called your own. In so many ways different and unyielding. The floor wasn't warm and welcoming. The walls mostly barren.

But even in the dim eye straining light you could see his silhouette against the couch. His posture said enough. Speaking volumes to you from feet away. You could almost taste his grief, the pain he held almost tangible in the air like the rain outside beating its swan song against the thick pane of glass off to your left. You stood in the bedroom door way, a loose tshirt hanging down your body and covering just enough that if anyone but him were there, you wouldn't be embarrassed. The bare stretches of skin on your arms and legs slowly broke out into goose flesh against the dampness and icy edge to the night air. You just watched him for a moment, waiting for that silent hint that he would give that told you it was okay to go to him.

The subtle movement of his head turning ever so slightly so you could see the red lined. profile of his face. Quietly, deathly silent, you turned and left him just long enough to dig out a towel from the shelf in your closet.

He says nothing as you wrap the fluffy green towel around his shoulders. He says nothing as you wrap your arms around his shoulders, fingers deft and seeking to warm his rain chilled skin. You pull the trigger when your hands touch skin. He turned and buries himself against you, his face warm and ice cold against the delicately soft skin of your neck. You close your eyes against the pain for him. The ache deep in your heart and soul you had for him. The tearing, stinging rawness you felt in your chest and the hot acid like sting behind your eyes.

He never cries. So you cry for him. You hold him and channel all the grief, the aching, longing, painful things he bottles and holds onto. You bury your face into his hair, the smell of him and rain and sadness filling your nose. It's a long time before either of you move, a small eternity that moves in the slowest frames. Your eyes hurt by the time you open them again, as he's leaning back from you. He won't let go, not completely. He needs to keep in contact with you, you, his anchor. His breath of fresh air. The umbrella in the storm.

You know he's still in pain, his touch when he reaches to cup your face and draw you close again so he can drive away the tight salty lines on your cheeks with his thumbs and lips He kisses you gently, almost not at all, as if you would shatter a million times over if he dared breathe on you too hard. He thanks you silently, no need for words to pass between you after years of the same thing. He's sat here with you so long that his clothing is dry, skin still clammy and icy to the touch. So after gathering yourself, willing the harsh pins and needles in your legs to go away as you stood and coaxed him along. You bring him to the small shower stall in your habsuite. Made more for one person rather than two, you make it work.

You undress the both of you, the water streaming from the shower head filling the small bathroom with warm steam. 

The shower is almost too hot. You both emerged tinted with darker hues and tender skin. You brush his hair and dry your own. Sinking into clean clothes feels like revival, and into bed with him is rapture. He curls around you, protective, warm, safe. He whispers a soft good night against your neck, arms clamped unmoving around you. You the life preserver in the middle of the turbulent ocean. The light in all the dark that he comes back to. Summoned to your side at the worst and best points of life.

You know this will happen again. Next year. To the day. But even if it happens in an endless circle for the rest of your life, you know and he knows too, you will always be there to hold him and help him when he can't help himself

**Author's Note:**

> I have no idea what I'm doing


End file.
